


a minute too late

by curiositykilled



Series: a small clock seen faintly [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Gen, Little Sisters, No Plot/Plotless, Tragedy: Death of a Brother, break-in, really unsubtle foreshadowing and hinting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 17:12:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone breaks into Bucky and Steve's old apartment</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

         The thing is, the apartment shouldn't even exist. A decade is long past any lease agreement, and even Captain America isn’t exempt from the passage of time. At most, its contents should be packed up, stored away, half-forgotten in the very back of the Barneses' basement.

         And yet -

         Peggy glances up from a stack of papers that’s been spread across a table, hastily, as if someone had only moments in which to find their secret, to see a familiar brunette limping in. Sousa’s eyebrows raise as he surveys the room, cataloguing the damage as he goes.

         “Someone really didn’t like this place,” he jokes, placing his crutch and feet carefully on the few bare spots of old, worn wood.

         “Or they were looking for something,” she adds, sitting down the sketch she’d picked up.

         It’s a finely crafted thing, a view of a Brooklyn building that’s as real as the one in which she stands. Bricks are clearly cut out with all their rough edges and crumbling mortar, and a laden clothesline flutters from one side of the window in its center. Within this window is the only solecism: a little stick figure with droopy suspenders and an over-exaggerated frown, helpfully labeled _Stevie Rogers - “Brooklyn Artiste.”_

         “For what?” he asks.

         Following his eyes’ path around the ramshackle apartment, Peggy wonders the same: the walls are bare, the furniture cared-for but cheap, the floor plain wood that creaks like each step's the last it'll support. If there’s anything valuable here, it’s hidden well. She picks her way back through the tipped furniture - a threadbare couch that smells faintly of mold and the end table that had stood beside it - towards the bathroom, but her pump taps a fallen picture frame and she crouches to right it. It’s surely been a good twenty years since the photo was taken, but the faces are still easily identifiable. James is grinning, eyes narrowed and lit with laughter, and Becca looks like she’s biting her lips to keep from laughing; Miriam’s crying while Naomi and Pat frown thoughtfully at the camera. Their parents are solemn, faces half-faded in the background.

         “Landlord says that the lease is in James B. Barnes’ name. That isn’t-?” Sousa starts.

         “Bucky Barnes, the plucky sidekick,” Peggy finishes, settling the photo back on the endtable, “yes.”

         “Wasn’t real plucky when I met him,” Sousa mutters behind her, crutch tapping against the exposed wood. There’s a pause and then, contritely, “Sorry. I know you were friends.”

         She laughs softly at that, stepping into the bathroom. It’s nothing more than a closet, and she can’t imagine either Barnes or Steve using it comfortably, much less both of them. The mirror is small and low, little more than a photo's worth of glass hung an inch or so below chest-level, and there's a three-legged stool against the wall across from it. This misconception is almost an old friend at this point, a jump of logic that bridges a cluttered void.

         “When did you meet?” she asks, rather than correcting him.

         “The Commandos rescued my company back in ‘44. Well, Captain Rogers did, really, but the Commandos covered us as we were getting out,” Sousa explains from the doorway.

         The sink’s corner is crushed, cracks spiderwebbing out from the shattered epicenter, and there are flecks of blood on the other corner. There’s a piece of paper crumpled in the sink, edges crushed in too far for its content to be seen. She picks it up gingerly, unfolding the edges with her fingertips.

         “What is it?” Sousa asks, leaning in.

         They’ve worked together a few times since Sousa jumped ship at the SSR, landing at SHIELD just before the inevitable collapse, and he’s one of few agents who keeps out of her way during assignments without sniping behind her back or being utterly worthless. She’s grown to appreciate it.

         “The man himself,” she answers, turning the wrinkled photo towards him.

         It’s a carnie-style shot, the square image faded and creased. James’ arm is slung over Steve’s bony shoulders, his cap shoved down on Steve’s head so that only the edge of Steve’s scowl is visible, and his uniform neat and clean. He’s laughing, clearly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes; they look, in that half-faded moment, terrified.

         “Huh,” Sousa hums. “Is that Rogers with him?”

         “It looks like him,” she affirms.

         There’s a crack through James’ left shoulder, but the photo is otherwise intact; whoever trashed the flat wasn’t angry enough to tear it. Smoothing it as near to flat as she can manage, Peggy sets it back down on the edge of the sink and moves back towards the doorway to survey the tiny room.

         “What did the landlord have to say?” she asks.

         There’s a rustle of paper as Sousa flips back through his notepad.

         “Apartment’s been empty for years, but the rent’s paid in full every month. He doesn’t seem to know who lived here, but his dad made him promise never to let the flat out,” he reads off. “They only called us because the SSR was listed as the last forwarding address.”

         “The rent’s paid in full?” she prompts, though she has a strong suspicion about where that mysterious money trail will lead.

         “Anonymous check delivered each month,” Sousa confirms.

         Peggy leads the way from the bathroom, each of them still stepping gingerly, though the mess is less here. The window’s been closed since she arrived, and the few papers and books scattered across the floor have stopped their lackadaisical fluttering. The kitchen was ignored, only the living room, bath, and bedroom ravaged. The personal areas.

         “Whatever they took, it must’ve been small,” Sousa remarks, scanning the apartment beside her. “Lotta’ work to go through to get whatever it was.”

         Peggy nods briefly, pulling her jacket closed and doing up the buttons absently. She should call Becca, she knows, let her know that someone’s broken into and made a mess of her brother’s flat; she should ask Howard what he thinks he’s doing, keeping the place like a mausoleum. She turns to go.

         “What should I tell the landlord?” Sousa asks as she goes.

         “He should open a museum,” she answers.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

           “Naomi’s gone off to California," Becca explains,  exasperation quiet but apparent in her tone. "Says she needs freedom - whatever that’s supposed to mean."

           "On her own?" Peggy asks.

           Becca pauses in layering foundation over the corpse's face and brushes her hair back with the back of her forearm.

           "No, she’s staying with another girl - Helen, I think," she sighs,  "but I don't know how she thinks they're going to make rent. Poets aren’t in real high demand."

           Peggy smiles faintly at that,  tugging her coat a little closer against the chill of the basement. The whole room smells of chemicals, biting and metallic, but Becca seems entirely unfazed. She had apologized absently when Peggy’s breath hitched in the doorway and then continued with her work.

           "Perhaps she'll make some connections and become a bestseller," Peggy jokes lightly.

           In truth, she has no idea what Naomi can do with her poems. She's a talented writer, but Becca’s right: few people are interested in a left-leaning woman's poetry. Shifting her weight, she recrosses her left ankle over her right.

           "I just don't know what she thinks she's doing," Becca sighs. "I don't think she knows, honestly. She just keeps wandering around without any goals."

           "A little bit of that gypsy heart?" Peggy suggests.

           "More than a little," Becca gripes, but she’s smiling slightly.

           Satisfied,  Peggy leans back in her chair, and there's a lull in their conversation for a bit. Becca’s hands are deft and experienced as they liven white cheeks and smooth wispy hair until the woman lying on the table looks if not beautiful then at least peaceful.

           "How did you learn how to do this?" Peggy asks eventually.

           "Hm? Oh, we always came down to watch Dad and Uncle Will," she explains. "We didn’t get to really help till we were fourteen,  but after that, we did whatever they needed us to. After the war, there wasn't really anyone else to take it over, and I didn’t have any other plans."

           Peggy nods. It seems strange to think of fourteen year olds being trusted with tending the dead, but there were boys no older than that in the war, even if there shouldn't have been. If they can be trusted to kill, she imagines, they might as well be trusted to restore.

           "Dad was always sentimental about the whole thing, saying we were giving people the dignity they deserved," Becca continues absently. "Bout the only thing he was sentimental about. Will always laughed at him, told us death wasn't beautiful or dignified,  we just tricked people into believing it was."

           Peggy laughs in surprise, more an inhale than a true chuckle, and Becca grins over at her.

           "Real poetic, right?" she agrees.

           "It's not quite what I expected,  no," Peggy admits.

           Becca steps back to survey her work.

           "It's true, though," she muses.

           There are gentle roses in the woman's soft cheeks,  small smile lines in the corners of her eyes. Her light pink lips whisper of life and her relaxed shoulders of rest. She looks, for a fleeting breath, as if she's only just fallen asleep.

           "Yes," Peggy says softly, "I suppose it is."

           They stand there in a brief vigil over her for a few quiet moments,  but then Becca clasps her hands together and begins washing up. In only five or so minutes,  they’re dressed and heading down the street towards DUMBO. People crowd the streets, jostling and shoving as they hurry to start their holiday shopping, and Becca finally hooks her arm through Peggy’s to keep from losing each other.

           "Good old New York," she mutters, fondly exasperated.

           Peggy smiles faintly at her tone, gaze roving over the packages and parcels cradled in passersby's arms.

           "Do you have plans for the holidays?" Peggy asks.

           "Not really,” Becca admits. “Hanukkah’s not nearly as big a deal as your Christmas. We’ll give gifts to the kids, but mostly, it’s just an excuse to see family.”

           Peggy nods slightly and offers a measly excuse when Becca asks about her own holiday plans. She immediately shifts the conversation back to Becca’s family, and she listens with fond attention as Becca explains her sprawling family tree the rest of the way to the flat. The apartment's as Peggy left it, and Becca releases a quiet breath before crossing the threshold. She moves through the apartment slowly, almost reverently, pausing in front of the photo on the endtable. Her hand reaches out as if to pick it up, but she recoils,  drops it.

           "Miriam said she'd be over once she finished the wash," she remarks absently.

           "Your mother?" Peggy asks, cautious.

           Becca scoffs, an ugly, harsh sound.

           "No," she answers and doesn’t elaborate.

           They start in the kitchen, sifting through the meager dishes and near-empty cupboard. It’s easy here: there are few memories attached to half-rusted pots and forks. Except for a wooden spoon Becca dubs Sarah Rogers', none are salvageable,  and Peggy’s just standing to look for a box when the door whines open.

           "Beck?" Miriam’s voice calls.

           "Kitchen," Becca replies, though Miriam’s footsteps are already moving towards them: it’s hard to hide in this barren flat.

           "Been a while since I was here," Miriam admits as she enters. "Hi there, Peggy."

           "Morning," Peggy answers.

           They move to the living room next; it's little more than an extension of the kitchen with a couch and a battered chair, but there are stacked apple crates filled with tattered books and a small pile of paper on the very top. Miriam stops in front of these, and Becca drifts close enough to pull her little sister in for a firm, one-armed hug. Peggy lingers uncertainly by the couch, and, after a bit, they slide apart wordlessly and get to work. Very quickly,  it becomes apparent that none of the books were exclusively James' or Steve’s.

           "Half of these are more full of Steve’s sketches than their own words," Miriam complains eventually,  dropping down a particularly battered edition of _Brave New World._

           The page it falls open to features a grumpy, short-legged man scowling beside a taller, smooth-faced man in the upper right hand margin and a neat cursive note asking _is this a hint?_ Both are in graphite and a little smudged, but the difference between the scribbled doodles and smooth cursive is still stark. Peggy bites back a smile.

           “I loved Steve and all, but did he really have no sense of personal property?” Miriam asks, nose wrinkling as she flips through another book.

           “If Buck didn’t like it, Steve would’ve stopped,” Becca replies, cradling _Brave New World_ in gentle hands.

           Flipping through the tattered _Hobbit_ sitting beside her, Peggy lets the smile slip free at Miriam’s reluctant huff. Most of these pages have tiny little scenes tracking along their margins, of hobbits and elves and one serpentine dragon - but it’s as she’s nearing the back of the book that a folded leaf of paper flutters to the floor. She picks it up carefully and unfolds it as she did the photo, earlier.

           “Oh!” she yelps, dropping the paper in surprise.

           Immediately, Becca and Miriam slide closer like town gossips around a move-in. Miriam snags the paper before Becca can, shoots her sister a smug glance, and unfolds it much more hastily than Peggy had.

           “Sweet _Lord_ ,” she breathes.

           Becca starts laughing.

           The drawing’s clearly made by the same hand as the one she saw earlier of the apartment building. This time, though, the subject’s a bit more organic. Barnes is flopped, clearly relaxed, on his back with his face obscured by the sergeant’s cap tipped down low over his face; the undershirt he wears is hitched up across his abdomen, the musculature there drawn with quick pencil strokes and shaded lightly. It’s a far rougher, more hastily done drawing than the one Peggy had first seen, but it’s still enough that she can recognize the curl of his smirk and the mostly-hidden shape of his nose.

           “I knew we were gonna’ find one of these,” Becca laughs, hand clapped over her mouth like a little girl at a sleepover.

           “Beg pardon?” Peggy asks.

           Miriam rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile playing at her lips.

           “You might’ve missed it during the war, but Bucky was a well documented specimen of the Brooklyn Peacock,” she drawls.

           She smiles at the joke and only half-listens to the women’s reminiscence of their brother’s apparently infamous concern with his looks. During the war - well, the first time Peggy saw the much-lauded “Bucky Barnes of the 107th,” he had been filthy, haunted, and predatory - a whipped dog who saw every shadow as a potential threat. He’d cleaned up after that first week, wiped away the grime and smoothed back his hair, but it had been like a flimsy coat of veneer over chipped wood. The last thing still holding together the splinters of what once had been Bucky Barnes.

           She keeps that to herself.


	3. Chapter 3

           “Huh, lookit this,” Angie prompts over breakfast, a few weeks later.

           Eyebrows quirking, Peggy glances up from the file open beside her tea to read the headline Angie’s presenting. _HOWLING COMMANDOS EXHIBIT OPENS IN NEW YORK_ it declares in bold black print, stark against the newsprint grey. Underneath is a photo of the apartment’s doorway, now repainted and emblazoned with a fancy plaque proclaiming it the home of Captain America and Bucky Barnes. The exhibit itself isn’t there, of course; no one wanted to visit a shabby tenement to hear about their heroes, but the reporter documents walking through it as if through a long lost tomb.

           "Bit dramatic," she remarks mildly.

           Angie laughs and turns the paper back around.

           "The apartment is still, untouched by time or man, as if even Nature herself recognized the honor its noble occupants deserve. There is a dog-eared book on the endtable,  a scatter of papers across the kitchen table," she reads, voice pitched low and grand. "The very air holds its breath."

           It's funny to hear aloud, spoken with the kind of deprecation Steve himself would use, and something tight in her chest loosens without her realizing it had been there until it disappears. She glances up from her tea to see Angie giving the paper a frank, unimpressed look.

           "Funny, I remember him goin' overseas for a few years," she remarks,  dry.

           "Well, they wouldn't want to ruin the story,  now would they?" Peggy answers.

           Angie scoffs at that and finishes perusing the article before folding it neatly with a rustle and a snap.

           "Ridiculous," she mutters."Whole thing's sponsored by Howard Stark, too. You'd think he'd be happy with that big lump down in Arlington."

           The thought of monstrosity to which she refers has Peggy’s lips quirking up in a  real smile. It had been raised with the best of intentions, she’s sure, a great statue of Steve looking out towards Capital like he’s still guarding the nation even in death. In reality, however, it’s as if the artist took a hatchet to Steve’s depiction and created a much more permanent echo of the machismo hero found in the comics. Suffice it to say, she doesn’t visit often.

           “Becca invited us to join them for New Year's," she says instead of the other things pressing at the back of her throat.

           "Us?" Angie repeats, skeptical. "How'd that happen?"

           By design, she’s pretty sure but doesn't say. Becca’s nearly as good a liar as her brother was, and Peggy’s never been quite sure how to approach that.

           "We don't have to go," Peggy offers. "We can spend the holidays here."

           "And miss out in my only chance to meet the infamous Barneses?" Angie scoffs. "C'mon."

           Peggy's evasion isn't forgotten,  she knows, but Angie lets it slide with a smile and a laugh. They clean up breakfast and Peggy finishes getting ready. By the time Peggy has her coat on, Angie’s taking the pins from her hair, and Peggy steps in to steal a quick peck.

           "I'll see you about five," she promises. "Have a lovely day."

           "You better," Angie teases. "Have a good one! Stay safe!"

           It isn't until she's walking into SHIELD that she realizes it's exactly how her grandparents used to say goodbye. The resulting flush that blooms across her cheeks has Howard eyeing her suspiciously for the rest of the morning.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually had this sitting on my drive for a few months now but kept thinking I wanted to upload a different piece, and then I realized that the timeline needed this one. So. Sorry for the lack of plot.


End file.
